


Russian Roulette

by Pandorama



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, F/M, Poor Life Choices, implied adultery, post-Ashes and Dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandorama/pseuds/Pandorama
Summary: Post-ep tag to "Ashes and Dust." A case pushes Hotch outside his comfort zone, and that's where he finds Emily.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProfilingHotly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfilingHotly/gifts).



> I don't know why I wrote this. I don't actually see either of these characters doing these things in canon, but they sort of just crawled out of my brain as dark doppelgangers and ran off. I can't control the angsty little shits. I have no idea if this is a oneshot or not. They're in charge now.

He tries to sleep, but all he can see when he closes his eyes is flames, and he hears Charlotte Cutler’s last breaths, shallow and rattling, over and over. He knows it’s useless to try to sleep. And even if he could, he doesn’t want to know what his subconscious can do with what he’s seen today.

And so he walks.

* * *

“Hotch?”

She finds him still staring at the envelope that Abby left behind, the look in his eyes so utterly bereft and unlike him that she stops dead in her tracks.

“Aaron?” She hasn’t called him that since they met in passing years ago in her mother’s foyer, before they were ever Hotch or Prentiss. The word comes out low and soft and she barely recognizes it as her own, except that she _feels it_ come from her, from someplace deep and rarely accessed.

“Hey.” She settles beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin and only then does she register that she was cold. “He chose to do what he did. There’s nothing you could have done to stop him.”

* * *

On some level, they both know what they’re doing, and they’re both consenting to what’s going to happen.

Really, they’re just racing themselves and one another to the point that they can chalk it up to alcohol and nothing more.

* * *

She’s not surprised to find out he’s a quiet drunk, but she’s not anticipating the way that quiet intensity rises with each drink. By the second drink she’s turned on by it, by the third it draws her into his personal space. By the fourth, she’s shifting in her seat to relieve the ache of arousal that’s settled between her thighs and she’s not trying to hide it from him because she’s been keeping pace.

By the fifth drink, the look in her eyes is tearing into her and she’s not sure if she wants to fuck him or cry for him.

* * *

She lets her bare arm brush his in the elevator, and he looks at her half-shocked and half-angry, but he’s a man and his body’s betraying him, impressively so for how many drinks he’s had and how many years he’s lived.

He crowds her against her door just a little, just enough for it to be inappropriate unless they’re going to let this play out, and she slips the keycard in the door and pushes and turns around to look at him with the closest thing to certainty she can muster. “Are you coming?”

* * *

His hand is between her thighs and she’s gasping at the feel of his fingers inside her and his body pressed hard into hers, and she somehow has the wherewithal to ask if he has a condom.

“Why would I?” His voice is low and even as he grinds himself against her, she realizes he’s offended.

She doesn’t get a chance to answer, because she’s coming a moment later and even after, she’s doesn’t really care, and she’s not sure why.

* * *

He hates the way she looks at him like she trusts him, the way her eyes stay on him, half-hooded but seeing him whole.

It’s been too long for both of them and there’s a dark arousal spurring them on at the recklessness of what they’re doing. He’s not gentle when he pushes into her, and he feels her body go rigid as she makes a noise that’s pleasure and pain at once and pulls at him, and if anything were to make sense to him in this moment, it would be the realization that she likes it to hurt just a little.

The voice of reason in his mind that tells him to pull out is drowned out by alcohol and pleasure and he can’t bring himself to move after, because she feels like being alive.

Under him, she just sighs, and her hand finds his and traces the pattern of veins on his skin for awhile, and then she shifts and her voice is raspy in the dark air.

“It’s not your fault.”

* * *

He stays until the sound of her breath and the way her nails dig into his skin push the images of what he’s seen these last few days from his mind. 

It takes a long time, long enough that he’s sober when he makes her come one last time, his name sounding twisted and angry as she gasps it out.


End file.
